Nausea Poem by Keith Dovoric

There's some mornings I wake up
I realize I made it all up
The drama, the stage, the curtain
The actors and their scripted burden

And somewhere in the dark theater,
We're lit by a sudden flashing
And all that history will recover
Are the pistols of assassins
The pistols of assassins

There's some moments I break free
The constraints of my perspective
On an ocean one cannot see,
One mustn't try to be too objective

But somewhere beyond the parting waves,
I see a wreck on a heap of sand
Overgrown with tropical flowers
And wouldn't you know
Wouldn't you know
Wouldn't you know
That I recognize that man!

There's some evenings I go down
To the Bouville Cafe
But I can't touch my espresso
And the room begins to sway

And somewhere within the din of the throngs,
I come to wonder what is wrong
Then melting away is every facade
And all that lingers is a jukebox song
Called "Nausea"
That's the echo of a jukebox song
Called "Nausea"